Replacement
by Captain Frankle
Summary: A different take on a Post-Reichenbach story. Everyone has a 'type'. Even John Watson. His type is tall, mysterious and utterly odd.


I first met John Watson in a Costa Coffee up the road from my apartment on a Saturday morning. It had been a long day of waiting and watching the phone. This constant need to be doing something was killing me. I needed an idea. My mother always told me that being an artist was an awful career choice, as any tiger parent would do. Of course, being the rebellious one of my four siblings, I did the complete opposite. Plus the idea of sitting in an office all day was the closest thing to torture for me.

Now I know what she meant.

I walked into the costa, hoping that a break from phone watching would help me sort my game plan. I was getting nowhere.

As I walked through the door absorbed in my thoughts, a strong shoulder collided with my upper arm, causing the person's coffee to spill all over my white shirt. I looked to his face to apologize when he blushed a furious red.

'I-I'm so sorry,' he stuttered, 'I wasn't looking where I was going.'

His face was twisted into a bit of a grimace. He looked older than I guessed he was if I just went on the deeply set lines on his forehead and by the sides of his mouth. His hair was blonde and ended at his eyebrows. He was just below average height but it didn't help that I was well over 6 ft. I looked down on this small man and smiled.

'It's no problem, neither was I,' I brushed a little of the coffee from my shirt and hissed a little as I realized I was slightly burnt, 'I'll just buy you a new one.'

He looked at me slightly horror-stricken.

'There's no need,' he muttered while shaking his head, 'But I should inspect those burns.'

'No, really, it's fine.'

'No, really, I'm a doctor, I insist.'

And so I ended up spending time in a coffee shop queue with a small man running his hands over my stomach. After he made sure I was ok, I bought him a coffee and we ended up seated next to each other on the high chairs by the window. People walked by the window, oblivious to us watching them, getting on with their daily lives. It seemed like such an ordinary scene.

'I'm John Watson,' the man next to me said, taking a sip from his black coffee with 2 sugars.

'Toby White,' I said, mirroring his actions and then placing my cup back into it's saucer, 'Coffee ordering extrordinaire.'

John smiled into his coffee and we continued sitting in silence.

'What's your favourite colour?' I asked after a few minutes.

John looked at me with 'puzzled' written all over his face.

'Come again?'

'I asked you what your favourite colour was,' I repeated, 'It was pretty straightforward.'

John sat there, his lips curling at the edges and he adopted a 'thinking' pose, with a hand slowly rubbing the tip of his chin and his eyes looking to the ceiling.

'Favourite colour...I'd have to say navy blue. And yourself?'

'Orange,' I replied, 'And yellow. Bright colours.'

I began twiddling the spoon that came with my coffee between my fingers, trying to twist it around my index and thumb until John cleared his throat.

'Why did you ask me that question?' he asked me, looking into my eyes. I shrugged.

'I wanted to know. I thought your favourite colour would be something dark,' I said, returning my attention to the spoon. If I tilted it in a certain way, I could see the distorted reflection of John's face. It made me laugh.

'You could tell, could you?' John asked, looking at me with a bewildered expression.

'Of course,' I said to the silver spoon John reflected in the metal, 'You look like you like dark colours. Something that contrasts with your natural complexion.'

The man looked at me with a bemused expression on his face. We sat in silence for a little while with me ocasionally asking John questions. Of the 5 more questions I asked, I got 4 correct answers.

'I need to get going,' he started as he went to stand. I grabbed his wrist. I was having fun. I didn't want to go back to my apartment and stare at a blank canvas for half an hour. He looked at me when I did that and smiled, not one of the small ones that he'd been doing all day, but one that was true and reached his eyes.

'But here's my number, call me anytime.'

He wrote his name on a napkin and gave it to me. I tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans. He raised an eyebrow but I dismissed it with a wave of a hand.

'Just so I remember,' I replied, 'When I sit down, I'll remember the piece of paper in my pocket.'

'Right. Bye Toby,' he said, turning his back and then turning back round to give me a final wave. I waved back and swiveled on my chair for a while, watching him as he walked down the opposite street.

I continued to sit in the costa until a hefty looking italian man in the red uniform told me that if I didn't buy anything else, I couldn't stay. And so I left.

Returning home was sad. I was alone again. But at least I could call John. I pressed his number into my standard nokia phone and typed out a text message.

_John, I'm really bored. I don't know what to draw. Ideas? - Toby_

He texted back about 3 minutes.

_Why don't you try drawing me? - JW_

I sat and stared at the text for a while. A sudden bout of inspiration struck. That was a fantastic idea.

Standing before the empty canvas, I drew out a brush from a nearby pot of slightly dirty water. I forget to clean my equipment a lot. I spent a whole hour on that painting before I began to feel the grip of boredom settle on my brain. And yet I carried on.

I texted John his portrait at about 11.

_~photo attachment~_

_I did paint you John. Hope you like it - Toby_

I sat on the edge of my slightly threadbare sofa, tapping on my knees and waiting for a reply. It came in 4 minutes.

_Wow, that looks amazing. I'm flattered - JW_

_I wanted to make it accurate, but you look a bit sad - Toby_

I wasn't sure whether or not to add that or not, but I thought I should say. I didn't mean to make him look so sad, but he really was. He smiled, sure, but his eyes and lines and aura told a different story. My phone began to buzz on the arm of the seat and as my eyes read the text, I smiled.

_Perfect then - JW_

* * *

><p>The next time I saw John Watson was another coincidental meeting. My mother had decided that it would be a good idea to take me to a clinic, just to assess my 'health issues'. I was sat in the waiting room with her at 12.30 on a Thursday afternoon.<p>

'Mother, I'm 28, I don't need you to take me to the doctors,' I hissed. Anywhere with doctors had always made me uncomfortable. But then again, when one after another are forced on you as a child, it doesn't usually made the right impression.

'Oh hush Tobias,' mother muttered under her breath, smoothing out the imaginary wrinkles in her skirt, 'I know you and you're utterly terrified of doctors. You wouldn't go without me'

I turned to face the side of her head. I glared at her loose bun, I glared at her high cheekbones (something I inherited from her) and I glared at her perfectly shaped mouth. I resented all of her.

'I dislike you very much,' I said, turning back to face the information boards and crossed my arms over my military styled jacket and white florence and the machine t-shirt.

'Well then, we're improving,' she said with a softer edge to her voice than before.

We sat in total silence. Doctor Patrick was running half an hour behind and so my mother was becoming agitated.

'Toby, is that you?' I head a voice say and instantly recognized it. I turned in my chair to see John, white coat round his shoulders and clipboard in hand. I smiled and clambered over the chair to meet him.

'John, you work here?' I asked, grabbing his right shoulder. When I had extreme moments of boredom (every day of the week since I met him) I had called or texted him and he had divulged the story of his shoulder injury in Afghanistan. I found the whole story horrifying. My older brother, Julius, had gone off to war somewhere (I was never one for keeping up with current affairs). Our family had been so proud, one of the White family, fighting for Queen and Country. Until he was blown up and lost a leg.

Then it wasn't so honorable.

'Yeah, I do, I told you I was a doctor,' he smiled.

'Wow, that's very cool, my mother always wanted me to do something successful like becoming a doctor but I can't pay attention for long enough,' I said, gasping for breath once I had finished my sentence. John laughed.

'Well, if I'm anything to go by, you're not always successful money-wise if you become a doctor.'

I laughed a little at his attempt at a joke. John's humour was dry. But I had been around people with no humour for so long that any type was welcome in my life.

'I still think it's cool,' I said, patting him on the shoulder.

'So why are you here?' John asked, looking me up and down to see if there was anything obviously wrong with me.

'My mother wanted to take me,' I muttered under my breath, 'Even though I'm old enough to go on my own.'

'And how old would that be?' John asked.

'28,' I replied, taking in the slight widening of the man in front of me's eyes.

'You look a lot younger,' the doctor said to me, looking me up and down again.

'I know, I act a lot younger too,' I smiled and he smiled back.

'Tobias White,' Dr Patrick called from inside his room.

'Coming,' I shouted before my mother could say a word, 'Talk to you later John!'

I left the slightly bewildered John in the corridor as I almost sprinted into the room.

The appointment went on for a long time. Too long. I had various tests I had to complete which seemed increasingly irrelevant and pointless as the appointment went on. I found myself staring at the mirror on the far end of the room.

I had quite a long face I noticed. I ran a spindly finger along the cheekbones and then over the eyelids of my amber, almond-shaped eyes that I had inherited from my father. I was the only one of my brothers to have those colour eyes. It made me feel special. I stretched my lanky legs out in front of me and twisted my ankles from side to side. They looked even more skinny in the jeans I had put on this morning than my usual 'uniform' of loose tracksuit bottoms but I didn't mind that.

Did John see what I saw? Did he look at me and see a skinny boy who was yet to grow into his limbs at 28 or did he think I was handsome? What did I think about him? He was a fascinating person. He had listened to me in the cafe and when I frequently called him. He didn't ask me stupid questions or pretend to act interested because he genuinely was.

I was bought out of my musings by the sound of my mother sniffing.

I was still not perfect.

* * *

><p>The next time I met John was actually on purpose. It was the Saturday afternoon after the clinic and I needed a distraction. The dull canvas in front of me was providing no inspiration and I felt under pressure to do something with it, a feeling that never seemed to end well. I pulled out my phone and wrote out a text to John.<p>

_You want to come over? I'll meet you at the Costa - Toby_

I collapsed onto the sofa, as if inviting this man around my house had lifted a huge weight off my shoulders that I didn't even know I had, leaving me exhausted. A painful minute of waiting went by before my phone vibrated in my hand.

_Sounds good. I'll see you there in 10 - JW_

I re-read the text and laughed. He had agreed. It was then that I realized my apartment was a tip. I normally hate cleaning, but for John, I made an effort and cleaned out all the empty pizza boxes and various wrappers, as well as cleaning the dried paint off the table tops.

After a 5 minute tidy-up, I grabbed my keys and ran down to the costa, not even thinking to put on a coat. As I reached the door of the coffee shop, I checked my phone. 2.46. Exactly 6 minutes since I received the text. I slumped against the wall, the rush of the last few minutes catching up with me. Suddenly, the sun was blocked out by a figure, who soon extended a hand out to me.

'Hey,' came the voice of John as he hauled me off the floor, 'What were you doing down there?'

'Waiting for you,' I smiled, keeping hold of his hand and tugging in the direction of my apartment before the other man could even get a word in.

We entered my apartment. I led John to the sofa and he plonked himself down, looking happy but exhausted.

'Tea?' I asked and he looked at me a little oddly.

'Yeah...sure. Tea would be great,' he said, smiling.

'Great,' I said, making my way to the kitchenette and flicking on the kettle.

'Your apartment is nice,' John commented, 'Did you do all of these?'

He was indicating to all the pictures on the walls and I nodded. 'Of course!'

'They're really amazing,' John said, standing from his seat to get a closer look.

'Thank you John. Sugar?' I asked.

'No thanks, not with tea,' John said, walking to join me in the kitchen. It was a pretty basic space with just enough room for John and I to stand without contact. I passed him his cup of tea and we stood in silence for a while.

'Do you want me to show you my family?' I asked him. He looked a bit surprised by the question, but nodded and followed me to my room where, after climbing over the clothes and various objects strewn around on the floor, we both perched on the bed. I placed my tea on the bedside table and took the photo next to it, holding it out to John.

He took the photo and quietly sipped his tea, waiting for me to explain.

'That one there,' I said, pointing to Julius in his military uniform, 'Is Julius. He went to war somewhere and lost a leg. But he has 2 children called Yasmin and Rosanna that I haven't met yet. They are 3 years old. He got mother's eyes but everything else is our father's. I just hope that his daughters don't end up with his ears, they're huge!'

John nodded, keeping up with my random explanations.

'That's Adrian,' I pointed to the boy to the left of Julius, 'He went to Oxford. His long term girlfriend, Maria, has just broken up with him and that's why his smile is so sad. He's a mix of both my parents, personality and appearance wise. Pretty fortunate really.'

I ran my thumb over the photo, smiling a little at the sight of Adrian's grimace.

'He'd hate that I'm showing this to people,' I muttered, 'But it doesn't really matter, he committed suicide several years ago.'

John turned to look at me in that moment.

'I'm...I'm really sorry Toby,' he muttered, placing a hand on my shoulder. I decided I quite liked it and so curled my fingers around his.

'It's okay John, it was a while ago. We all die eventually and he told me that I was his best friend before he died. I know he's in a better place. He always seemed so sad here.'

I drifted off into my thoughts. Adrian had been my favorite brother. But he didn't want to live anymore, it was simple as that. I heard John sniff and turned to face him. He seemed to have tears in his eyes. I didn't want to see him cry.

'John, would you like a tissue?' I asked him, 'Or shall I carry on telling you about my family?'

John shook his head and let out a small laugh.

'No, it's fine, just...just keep talking, I'll be fine.'

I slid my arm around his shoulders and leaned us against the wall. John's hands had returned to his cooling tea and he sat, looking intently at the picture.

'Who's that?' he asked, pointing to the tall, brown-haired and blue-eyed boy in a vest and running shorts.

'That's Laurence,' I said proudly, 'He's one of the top ten runners in the country! He's so fast! He competed in a load of Olympic competitions! I went to see him a couple of times! He was so good at running. He always beat me.'

John laughed at my excited attitude and I felt warm. It felt nice having his warm body falling and rising against mine. I pulled my arm around him a little tighter in response to these thoughts.

'The other two people are my parents,' I said, 'My father is a business man and my mother used to paint. It's where I get my skills from, as well as my cheekbones.'

I touched the bones on the side of my face and chuckled to myself.

'Her hair as well. But I got my eye colour from my father. It's quite an unusual colour really, amber.'

'Can I have a look? AT your eyes? I've never really looked at them properly,' John asked, putting his tea on the bedside table next to mine.

I turned my head to look at him. He studied my eyes for a moment. I realized how close we were. I could see the dark blue speckles among the cornflower sea of John's iris'. They were really nice eyes, much nicer than I thought they would be. Before I could think, I was leaning in. So was John and we met in the middle, our lips fitting together slowly but surely. We both moved gently against each other for several minutes until John made a small noise that sounded a bit like a sob.

I pulled away and put my hands on the side of his face. The doctor was crying freely, his tears leaving ugly stains across his cheeks. I brushed each one away with my thumbs until the sobbing had died down, leaving a small ripple of whimpers in it's wake.

'The last person in the photo is me,' I said, waiting for John to calm down and hoping that talking could do the trick. This crying was beginning to get boring. I wanted it to stop, 'It was taken when I was 7. It was meant to be a portrait of our successful family but it's the only picture of all of us that I have. It was taken 3 days before I was diagnosed with ADHD. My mother was told it would go away by the time I was an adult but it was...so hard to concentrate. My mother has taken me to many doctors and such but nothing they do helps. It' all just ridiculous and tedious and boring. The research into it is a bit dodgy. But it doesn't really matter to me. I live my life how I want to, not how someone says I should based on the fact I don't listen to others and fidget.'

I stopped and looked into John's eyes. The tears were gone and the sadness had been replaced with a sort of warmth. I leant on him and soon we were lying on the bed, John on his back and me resting my head on his chest. I found a loose thread on his jumper and began to pick at it. John let out a sigh and I giggled a little as I felt the movement of his lungs.

'That feels so weird when you do that,' I said into his jumper.

'Good,' he said, threading a hand through my hair and stroking through it with a callused hand, 'It_ is_ weird. I'm too old for this.'

'Don't be ridiculous John, you're not old. My mother is old, not you,' I said, trying to lift his mood.

John laughed a little and the rumbles were just enough to get me giggling again.

'Do you want food?' i asked him once the laughter had died down and we were left in a comfortable silence.

'I'd love food,' John said, and his stomach seemed to agree with him, the way it was rumbling against my chest.

'Good. I'll order chinese.'

* * *

><p>The next few months went by without incident. John would come over to my flat and we'd chat, have tea and then completely ravish each other. Normally, the repetition would have gotten boring by now, but with John, he always found a new way to make me want him, a new way to make me moan with desire, a new way to live.<p>

I had never had much interest in my art, but John offered to post some photos onto his blog.

'I never knew you had a blog,' I had said.

'I didn't have anything interesting to write about until now,' he had replied.

Even after only a few days, my phone seemed to never stop ringing. It was a whole new experience for me, being successful, and so I had panicked. Of course, John had been there to sort it all out; order my commissions, take care of all the boring stuff while I drew pretty pictures.

It was the first of March when I realized something may be wrong. It was the first day I went to John's flat. The first day I heard of Sherlock Holmes.

'John, what are all these boxes for?' I asked, scanning a label on a box that read 'Conical flasks - DON NOT TOUCH'.

'They're, um...they belong to a friend...' John muttered while brewing a mug of tea in the kitchen.

'Which friend? I didn't know you had any friends John,' I said, scanning the other boxes.

'No, he...left a couple of years ago,' he trailed off.

'Oh? Why do you still have his stuff if he's gone?' I asked, genuinely curious. I'd known John was quite a sentimental person, but keeping someone's things once they're gone is going a bit far.

Suddenly, I could hear sniffing from the kitchen and the sound of jumper scratching across face. I entered the kitchen to see John furiously rubbing his face while stirring the two cups of tea. He saw me out of the corner of his eyes and turned away.

'John..we can't sort this if you don't talk to me about it,' I whispered, slinking my arms around his waist, 'Now tell me, who did the boxes belong to?'

John stood still for a moment and then turned in my arms. He raised his eyes till they were burning into mine. They were bloodshot and raw and the tip of his nose was a deep red. Taking a deep breath, he answered my question.

'They belonged to my flat mate, Sherlock Holmes,' he said, searching my face to see if I recognized the name. I didn't.

'I see. Why do you still have them?' I asked, confused. His face twisted slightly into a mixture of deeper sadness and anger.

'Do you not know who that is?' he cried, 'Sherlock Holmes! The world's only consulting detective? Do you not KNOW?'

I backed away from John as he tried to calm down.

'John, you know what I'm like, I don't keep up with current affairs. I couldn't even tell you who the current prime minister is, let alone something that happened a few years ago.'

John looked at me, a pained expression on his face. His hands clenched and unclenched, an obvious way for him to vent his anger without breaking anything. Or anyone. After 30 seconds, John's shoulders slumped and he walked to the sofa, collapsing into the squishy cocoon it created. I joined him, putting my arm around his shoulders and pulling him close. He leaned into my side and fisted a hand into my loose t-shirt.

'He was a brilliant man,' John started, giving me the explanation I had been waiting for, 'He saved me after I came home from Afghanistan. I was...falling apart. I had no-one to rely on, not with Harry's alcoholism and my parents want to avoid everything that was wrong.

'We began our adventures, wandering the streets of London, catching criminals and everything was amazing. Then Moriarty framed him for crimes he didn't commit. And Sherlock jumped off a building. The media had a field day. 'Suicide of Fake Hero' was one of my personal favourites.'

John said the words with such venom that I felt I had been poisoned.

'And so I kept his stuff. Everytime I went to throw it away or donate it to somewhere, a little something in the back of my mind would stop me. I don't know how to explain it. But yeah. I'm sorry for unloading all my problems onto you Toby...'

As John's eyes welled up with tears once more, I looked down at him and stroked a hand through his hair. He held onto my shirt a little tighter.

'It's fine John, you have me now,' I said, pressing my lips to the top of his head.

His eyes met mine once again. Pulling me down by my shirt, he crashed his lips against mine, the contact feeling desperate. I responded, flicking out my tongue to trace a line along his bottom lip. He threaded his hand into my hair, pulling us even closer together. It felt so good.

That night was the first in which we had sex. It was angry and passionate, but it was what John needed. And so I gave myself to him.

It was only after it was over that I explained I had never done anything like that before.

'I'd never found the right person,' I whispered, feeling a little blood as well as other things trickle down my legs. John had buried his face in his hands and apologized. I just told him I needed it as much as he did.

We lay that night, wrapped up in each other and John's now sweaty sheets. It was a peaceful night with both of us exhausted from the emotional stresses of the day and yet content to just have each other.

* * *

><p>That's how remember John. He kept me grounded. My once regular temper tantrums reduced dramatically, as did the constant boredom I had often found myself a victim to. Every time we touched, it felt like something new, like I'd never get used to it. He occupied my thoughts constantly, not always at the forefront of my mind, but always there. My stomach began to flutter when we were close, a feeling that was unfamiliar to myself. It felt weird, like I was going to be sick but with butterflies spewing from my mouth as opposed to the usual products of illness. I think I was in love.<p>

I read his blog and after flicking through the various pictures of my art, I found the Sherlock posts. And there were hundreds. Each one explained in detail the crime, the deductions, the man himself. I read through each one and as I read, I realized something. John had loved Sherlock. He obviously hadn't realized at the time, but his words, his compliments to the man, they all pointed to one thing.

And so I did the only thing I could think of. I ignored the problem. I let it simmer away in the back of my mind. But everything was fine.

Until the man showed up on the doorstep of my life and forced himself in.

* * *

><p>It was several months after the 'Boxes' incident, as I had fondly named it. In that time, John had given me a key to his flat. I often went there for a change of scene, maybe to have a chat with Mrs Hudson (or sometimes comfort her when she started to cry with worry over John's wellbeing) or just to have some of John's tea. It always tasted better than mine for some reason.<p>

I walked up the stairs to John's apartment and slid my key into the lock, only to discover it was already open. Pushing the door, I went to hang my coat, thinking that John had just forgot to lock up by mistake. After slipping off my shoes, I entered the living room to see a new, and yet oh so familiar face.

'Sherlock Holmes,' I said, staring at the figure sprawled on the sofa.

His hair was cut a bit shorter than the photos that John had of him on his blog and he had deep purple bags outlining his eyes. Yet, he seemed like a darker copy of me: The curly hair, the cheekbones, the build of his body. His top lip was more defined than my own and his chin was slightly less pointed but those were the only real differences.

As soon as I saw him, I knew where my whole life was heading. His return was going to lead to John and mine's downfall. And so I did what any self-respecting man would do: I decided I wouldn't go down without a fight.

He opened one eye lazily, reminding me of a cat. I thought he was going to run an icy glare over me and then deduce me just as John had said he did, but instead, he sat up straight, looking me in the eyes.

'You're John's partner,' he breathed, taking in my appearance with a sad sort of stare.

'Yes, I'm Toby,' I said, walking over to him to perch on the arm of the sofa.

Sherlock looked lost for words. Eventually, he held out a hand for me to shake. I took it.

'Thank you for looking after John,' he said, letting go of my hand and then turning a serious glare on me, 'Your services are no longer required.'

Everything stopped.

'What do you mean?' I asked, narrowing my eyes at him. I could see him resisting the urge to roll his eyes at me, but he carried on talking, a harsh edge to his voice.

'John no longer needs you. I'm back, and he will always choose me over you,' he muttered, 'I suggest you leave him while you can get away without causing yourself any embarrassment.'

I was just about to open my mouth to let out a harsh reply, when I heard John's footsteps on the other side of the door.

He entered the room, shopping bags in hand.

'Hey Toby,' he said, dumping the bags and his shoes in the entrance by my own, 'Can you put the tea on? I'm dying for a...'

He trailed off when he looked to us in the room. His eyes went wide and his hands clenched. I could almost hear his brain trying to process what was happening, every single thought that was dashing through his mind. Suddenly, a very forced smile made it's way onto his face.

'A cup of tea,' he said quietly while turning to towards the kitchen, causing Sherlock's eyebrows to furrow in confusion.

'John, it's me,' he said, going to stand.

John froze yet again.

'Toby, I need to go and lie down, make sure you bring the tea up,' John said, making his way to his bedroom instead.

'JOHN, for god's sake, it's me! What's WRONG with you!' Sherlock shouted, standing up and walking over to the other man. This caused John to turn around and begin shouting himself.

'You're not REAL! Stop haunting me Sherlock, I can't cope with you showing up just when I'm about to be happy. This has happened too many times. I have _Toby _now, I don't need your memory anymore! Please, just leave me alone and let me go mad in peace...'

The room was silent for a while, with Sherlock's mouth dropping open and me still sat on the arm of the sofa, feeling like I was interrupting a private moment.

John's eyes widened as Sherlock walked over and pulled him into a hug. He wrapped his arms around my 'darker half'. I heard them whispering to each other, but I couldn't make any of the words out over John's hiccupy sobs. They fit together so well. John & I had always looked like a weird couple, what with us both having blonde hair and being fairly similar in our sense of fashion (we both loved jumpers). Yet these two, they looked so good together. Sherlock, tall and dark and handsome and strange, then John who was small and light and well-rounded and fantastic.

And so I left them to it. There wasn't really anything else I could do. Sherlock was right, John didn't need me anymore. And so I took his advice. I was going to cut John out of my life.

So much for not going down without a fight.

* * *

><p>I ignored all of John's texts and calls for the next week and a half. The commissions kept piling up and I let them. I just wanted to wallow in self pity. I had finally found someone who was good for me and he had been ripped away by someone who could be my darker twin. There were a lot of broken mugs on my floor, making it impossible for me to walk around in anything less than converses. I had always tried to make tea then remembered how much John loved the stuff. The mugs had been thrown in whichever direction was the most convenient at the time. I don't know if you've ever tried to forget someone when everything in your home reminds you of them, but it's very difficult.<p>

It was Thursday when I finally replied to one of John's texts.

_We really need to talk Toby. Pick up my calls? - JW_

_I know we do. My house at 3. Make sure you have thick shoes - Toby_

I didn't bother getting dressed. Or tidying up. I walked around the apartment in my over sized green jumper, boxer shorts and converses, willing for time to go faster so I could get this over with. John wouldn't mind my appearance, he'd said that the jumper was his favorite. I punched a pillow on the sofa and yelled: why should I care about what John thinks?

I heard a knock at the door. I opened it. There stood John, his comforting, normal face before me, shadowed by the tall figure in a navy coat and blue scarf.

'Come in,' I muttered, ignoring the worried looks John shot at me. Sherlock followed, even though he could probably deduce that he was currently the last person I wanted to see.

'Toby, what happened here?' John asked, horrified at the mess.

'I kept dropping mugs,' I said flatly, 'I'm afraid I don't have enough left to make us all tea.'

'It's...it's fine. I wanted to see how you were seeing as you haven't been...returning my calls...or texts...'

John trailed of, looking at his hands, as I looked at Sherlock. He looked a bit horrified at the state I was in, but I could see the smug tint to his eyes. I walked over to a nearby vase that my mother had given me as a 'house-warming present'. I picked it up and flung it at the wall nearest my bedroom, letting out a yell as I did so. John and Sherlock jumped at my sudden outburst. I just couldn't keep myself under control.

'Toby, are you okay?' John asked, running over to me, pieces of broken mug crunching under his feet.

'John, please leave. And take Sherlock with you,' I muttered, anger rising as he approached me.

He touched my hand which had a long cut running across the palm. I hadn't even noticed that. It stung a bit now. Lifting the palm to the light, he breathed a sigh of relief, only to let out a small gasp.

'Did you do this to yourself?' he asked, looking into my eyes. They were so deep and full of concern that I didn't deserve. I looked across my arms and saw the skin littered with cuts. Looking down, my legs were the same.

'No, I cut it on one of the mugs,' I said, still looking at my converse-clad feet, 'I want you to leave now John, and I don't want to see you again.'

John looked hurt, his eyes wide and his lips set in a frown.

'Toby, you need to get some help, I-'

'NO!' I shouted, 'I love you John, but I don't need your help now, I'm fine! I always am and I always will be. Now run off with Sherlock and solve crimes and have sex or whatever it is you do. He needs you more than I do and I don't care about you anymore!'

I yanked my hand away from him just as his cheeks were turning red at my accusations, his mouth opening and closing. The weight of my words suddenly hit me, making me cringe. They hung in the air, suffocating everyone present until John stopped floundering and began to form coherent sentences.

'We're not...I'm...Toby, where are you going?' he asked, trying to reach for my hand again as I made my way to my room, my face burning with shame.

'I'm leaving you in peace,' I whispered, angry tears beginning to fill my eyes as I knew that this was the end, 'Now go with Sherlock. You need him more than you need me. I don't want to see you again.'

This time, John didn't protest. I heard Sherlock as he crunched across to John's side and pulled him swiftly towards the door.

'Make sure you close the door on your way out,' I said.

John was just about to close the door, when he stopped.

'Bye Toby. You're a good guy. Maybe you'll find someone who deserves you,' John said, shooting me a final smile. And then the door was closed.

* * *

><p>That was 6 months ago. I see John and Sherlock all the time. Their faces dance across my TV screens as they're interviewed on Breakfast TV shows about their work, their words haunt me as I skim through the free newspapers that I occasionally receive. I miss John. You always do when you leave someone on bad terms. Not that I would know much about that.<p>

But now I have someone new to lean on.

I met him almost the same way I met John: bumping into him in a small newsagents. I walked into him and 4knocked all the groceries he was carrying out of his hands. It was almost like how people meet in the movies: he dropped his food, I bent down to help him pick it up, we locked eyes and everything just went from there.

He listens to me when it all gets too much, he keeps me under control, he just gives me a reason to keep living. He forced me to move on, and for that I'm grateful.

I love Jim. So much. I just pray he doesn't have any undead skeletons lurking in his closet.

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John walk under the police tape and towards Lestrade, who is in a deep conversation with Sally. The pair of them had been in the middle of a make-out session when Sherlock's phone had buzzed with a text.<p>

'Come on Lestrade, make it quick, we were in the middle of something before we got your text,' Sherlock said, knowing that the tips of John's ears were turning a little red. He looked down and smiled, seeing that his deduction was correct.

'I'll show the guy to you Sherlock, we found him this morning, I thought I should call you in straight away,' Lestrade said, leading them into a private courtyard that belonged to a block of posh apartments. Sherlock and John followed, their shoulders bumping against each other and hands twitching in pockets, both men wanting to reach out to each other.

They were nearing the body when John stopped. Sherlock turned.

'John?' he questioned.

Said man broke out into a run, sprinting towards the body in the middle of a patch of grass. As Sherlock neared, he saw why it had provoked such a reaction. John dropped to his knees beside the body with Sherlock putting his hand on his shoulder in an awkward yet comforting way.

Before them lay a long, thin body young man, no older than 28, in nothing but a once green jumper that was a size too big and a pair of checkered boxer shorts. There was a single bullet wound in his chest and yet his blood was everywhere: matted into his curly blonde hair, smeared across his cheekbones, crusting over the wool of his jumper. His face was twisted into an expression of pain, his amber eyes wide, terrifying and lifeless.

In his hand, he held a single piece of paper. Sherlock bent down, unclenched the fingers around it and smoothed out the note with his gloved hands.

_Dear John Watson_

_I. O. U. one ex-boyfriend_

_Love J.M._

_xxx_

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I hope you enjoyed this story! I've wanted to do something post-reichenbach for a while now and this would just refuse to leave me alone. I love Toby. He's been in my head for the past few weeks refusing to leave me alone until he exists on paper! Sorry about the volume of words! This is my longest story ever! If you have any comments on it or possible improvements, please let me know :)**  
><strong>Anyway, thanks again for reading!<strong>


End file.
